


The Shield of Reason

by PhilArd



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I just wanted to write fluff, M/M, OOC (maybe), Probably Historically Inaccurate, Thorkell Being a Manchild, What's new there tho?, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilArd/pseuds/PhilArd
Summary: On their way to London, Asgeir finds that he's had just about enough of Thorkell's reckless behavior. Can they both make it to the city in one piece? Seems easier said than done.Takes place before Thorkell's troops join the English!
Relationships: Asgeir/Thorkell (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	The Shield of Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Vinland Saga, Makoto Yukimura does, and I am obviously not him because he wouldn't spend his genius writing some gay ooc oneshot.
> 
> This is inspired by Aren_wellhi’s AsgeirxThorkell fics. They gave me the bravery to contribute to this ship, so go read their fics if you haven't!

Autumn was in full swing in England. The dry ground was becoming hidden in a blanket of leaves, as most of them had already fallen from the thin branches overlooking the path. A slight breeze occasionally whipped between the tree trunks, sending the smallest of shivers up the crew’s spines. It was time for them to get used to the cold, as this mild fall weather would not last much longer. For now they marched aimlessly through the woods, not even bothering to keep silent as every step produced a noisy crunch from the dry foliage. Besides, there was no need to hide; they were viking warriors winning a pitiful war, and on top of it all, they had Thorkell on their side.

The beast of a man was currently lounging among some supplies in one of the horse drawn carts, hands folded behind his head while he watched the trees go past them as they marched. His second in command, Asgeir, was sitting on the edge of the cart tending to his sword. It was silent save for the leaves below them and the occasional chatter among the men, and Thorkell was becoming bored as sin.

“How long before we reach London?” His booming voice broke the calm air. A few men closer to the two leaders quieted to hear the answer, anxious for a break from marching.

Asgeir’s much calmer voice responded, “At the pace we’ve been going in, I’d say about another week. Not to worry, we have more than enough provisions to last us the journey.”

“That’s not the point!” Thorkell whined, sitting up to more directly address Asgeir, “I’ve been aching for a good fight. If I wait any longer I might die!” He put his hand against his forehead dramatically, flopping back down when it was clear Asgeir was not going to humor him. “You need to loosen up a bit.”

Asgeir snorted, “I wouldn’t say fighting is a way to ‘loosen up.’ We should avoid needless conflict and try to make it to London attracting as little attention as possible. We have enough supplies to last as it is, but if too many of us were to get wounded or exhausted…”

“Ha! A Viking army bested by an English one is no army at all, good riddance to them. We would be fine, we’re warriors! I wish we could run into some Englishmen now just so I could prove to you that—”

As if on cue, the horses came to a halt. The quiet banter among the men ceased entirely as did their marching. Everyone was alert and silent, until the muffled sounds of a foreign language met their ears. One of the men approached Thorkell, leaning over in the cart so he could whisper,

“Sir, there’s a band of English soldiers, maybe eight hundred strong. They’re on the path to London like us, they may be reinforcements… what should we do?” The Dane’s face was blank, awaiting Thorkell’s reaction. Meanwhile, Asgeir knew where this was going, and a weary frown already marked his face.

“Eight hundred Englishmen, hmm?” The blond smiled so big his teeth were showing. An excited gleam sparked in his eyes, and it was clear his mind was made up. “Looks like the fighting came to us early, how exciting!”

Thorkell bolted upright to his feet, causing the wagon to wobble as the horses struggled to maintain their balance. “All right! Men-”

“Thorkell,” Asgeir’s concerned voice addressed him sternly, “Is this really necessary? As it stands now, we only have roughly four hundred men to match their eight hundred. We are in foreign territory, with no knowledge of where nearby villages are if we run through our supplies. Maybe we should follow from a distance, allow them to lead us through the country without risking the lives we do have.”

“You think we’ll lose? Honestly, Asgeir, you have no faith in our men!” With that, he drew his duel axes from his belt and pointed one in the direction of the English, “Kill them all! Take what you can from them, but make sure you kill every last one!”

In a single force, the norsemen drew their weapons and charged towards where the voices had been heard. Moments later, the air was filled with screams of rage, excitement, fear, pain… it sent adrenaline coursing through Thorkell’s veins. “Come on, Asgeir! It will do you some good to feel the rush of battle. Besides, if we don’t hurry there will be nothing left.” Asgeir heaved a sigh before joining him, rushing to catch up as Thorkell was already speeding towards the fray. 

No Englishman was a match for Thorkell, the inhuman Dane whipping through their ranks like they were mere dandelions in a field. Each swing of his axes took out several men at once, spraying their crimson blood against the pale trees. The rest of the men fought tooth and nail, not wanting to fall before even reaching London. However fierce they were, Asgeir had been right in some regards; the English troops outnumbered them greatly, and while Thorkell counted for several regular men, it was not enough to ease the burden entirely. The norsemen were winning, but with the use of all their strength they had saved for the war.

After a seemingly endless hour or so, the remaining English troops were desperately trying to flee the scene, giving up any hope of stopping the foreign monsters. Thorkell watched them trip over their own feet as they scrambled away, his expression going from excited to disappointed.

“Oi, where are you all going? Some warriors you are, we were just getting started!” He picked up a spear lying beside one of the corpses at his feet and flung it at the retreating men, skewering three of them at once. “I can’t let you leave for London, you’ll scare them all off!” He motioned for another spear, which one of the men promptly gave him and with one throw another four soldiers were impaled. 

“Just let them go, Thorkell. It’s clear we’ve already won,” Asgeir came to stand next to him, his sword which had been spotless moments ago now slathered with blood that dripped onto the ground in thick splots. “I’d be surprised if they even bothered to finish the trek to London. They may just disband and go home.”

“But it’s not over yet, there’s still about two hundred of them! That’s two hundred Englishman I’m missing out on killing.” There was a slight whine to his voice, like a child who understands the reasons of their parent’s order but wants to disobey anyway. Asgeir held firm, surprising the men yet again with his power over their leader. 

“No, we are wasting time. Some of the men are wounded and must be tended to, and the rest are exhausted. After such a fight, I think it is best we rest nearby until dawn, not here though, in case they send reinforcements.”

“Then just let me finish them off, that way for sure there will be no reinforcements!”

“You can’t just fight two hundred armed men alone! Even you could be seriously hurt if you were so outnumbered, and the men can’t keep up.” The argument was getting tense, and the injured and tired Danes gathered around them to observe the fight. No one wanted to admit it, but Asgeir was right. The past hour or so had been brutal, and while they had won the fight and boosted their morale, it came at a price. 

Thorkell was blind to this though, seeing only the prize of slaughtering the retreating forces, who had by now made some ground between them. Feeling rushed, he pointed his axe at Asgeir in anger and sneered, “You should become more of a warrior if you want to follow me! It’s not my problem if you can’t keep up.”

Asgeir’s jaw clenched in poorly contained frustration. He was tired, the men were tired, and he knew that while they had been victorious they would have to deal with the consequences at a high price to their supplies and speed to London. They should not have engaged in a fight, victory was not everything! “I’m saying it for your own good. You can’t charge so many soldiers on foot alone, it’s insane!” He made a sweeping gesture to the warriors who had regrouped around them, “You’re a leader to these men, you can’t die on some skirmish in foreign woods!”

“You don’t know me, Asgeir. I don’t need anyone to take on the English- they’re nothing but sad peasants who have never known the glory of true battle!”

That was the last straw. Asgeir threw his sword to the ground in rage at this child of a man towering over him, his eyes glowing with a strange emotion of hurt and betrayal. Deep down he knew part of it was Thorkell being childish and not wanting to back down, but a larger part of him felt resentment at being ridiculed when he knew he was right. “You say I don’t understand what you’re capable of? That I don’t know you? Does twelve years of following you not mean anything?!”

By now nearly every member of Thorkell’s army was watching the pair fight. Those who had been following the pair longer were in awe at the sight. Rarely did they ever go at eachother like this, and they were certain that Asgeir was only still alive because of the strange importance Thorkell placed on him. But watching the beastly man’s face, it was impossible to tell where this was going. It was clearly about more than the English, who by now were surely too far away to even bother with. This had been coming for a while now, as it seemed Asgeir was done with Thorkell’s immature demands. 

Meanwhile Thorkell thought about Aesgir’s words for a moment, letting out a condescending humm as he thought over Asgeir’s question. It only served to infuriate the smaller man further, as he clenched his fists and dug his feet in the ground waiting for an answer. Finally, Thorkell sighed and scratched his head, glaring at Asgeir with purpose, “Twelve years isn’t that long, and besides, I could easily just replace you.”

In the next few seconds, everything about Asgeir went through multiple phases. Thorkell’s words seemed to strike him harder than a spear, his usual stern exterior melting to reveal a kind of brokenheartedness that should never show on a Viking’s face. His tense body loosened in defeat as he stared into the icy blue eyes of Thorkell, who looked as uninterested as if Asgeir was a mere stranger on the road. Then everything shifted, as Asgeir tensed up again and nearly threw himself onto Thorkell, not in anger, but in a protective desperation. He had jumped high enough to wrap his arms around his neck and bury his face into his chest, sending them both crashing to the ground.

In those moments, a poor half slaughtered English archer had managed to climb one of the smaller trees and had taken aim at Thorkell’s head. Instead, his arrow had lodged itself into Asgeir’s back, the sharp tip impaling him enough to rest just beside his heart. It didn’t take long for Thorkell to realize what had happened, and he easily threw one of his axes to hit the archer’s skull in a perfect shot, sending him down from the tree in a bloody heap. Some of his men went to investigate the body, but his attention had already shifted to his second in command still clutching the collar of his shirt. 

Asgeir was already pale as a ghost and a crimson stain was blossoming around the arrow, wetting his olive green shirt. He stayed stiff as a board in Thorkell’s lap, trying to limit his movements so as not to agitate the wound too much. Thorkell on the other hand was fidgeting to no end, trying to get a good look at the wound while trying his best not to stir the smaller man who was clearly in agony. In his panic, he grabbed at the arrow’s shaft, preparing to pull it out when Asgeir let out a pitiful whimper between clenched teeth. Thorkell immediately let go as if he had been burned.  
“Don’t pull it out now, you’ll never be able to stop the bleeding. Wait until you have bandages, or something…” Asgeir’s voice trailed off, his focus hard to maintain from the shock and pain emanating from his insides. 

“Ok, just stay awake so I know you’re still alive.” The pure worry that dripped from his words caused Asgeir to smile through the pain for a moment, trying to reassure his leader that everything would be alright. 

Something about that sad small smile made Thorkell worry even more. His earlier words had only been out of pity defiance, and now all he could think of was that being the last conversation they would ever have. His mind was racing with all the horrible possibilities as Asgeir became limper in his grasp by the second. Finally, he decided that despite the dangers of moving Asgeir too much, he could not sit still forever. Far more gently than anyone would have thought possible, he lifted the smaller man into his arms and rose to his feet. Once he was in a standing position, the panic and adrenaline came back full force, and he surveyed the surrounding shocked men with quick darting eyes.

“Don’t we have a medic somewhere? Someone who knows what to do?!” When no volunteers stepped forward, his focus went elsewhere, 

“Wait, we can’t just stand out here in the open, we have to find shelter or else he’ll have a hard time recovering… ah, where is the nearest village? Anyone?” Again, the men were silent, not knowing what to do and too weirded out by Thorkell’s lost demeanor to react much to anything. 

“T-Thorkell…” Asgeir’s soft voice seemed to clear his head, “remember, the supplies are down the road where we left them… I can rest there, we have bandages and water on that cart.”

“Oh, y-yeah! Right, the cart,” like a robot, Thorkell sped back down the path where the supplies waited, his quickened steps jolting Asgeir in his arms and causing waves of pain to cloud his vision. However awful it was, he was too weak to continue tensing himself in reflex. The blood loss and shock were becoming too much, and he let his eyes close and the last of his strength give out. 

After all, Thorkell wouldn’t let him die.

When Asgeir next opened his eyes, the sky was purple with streaks of orange from the setting sun. Skinny tree branches hung over him, swaying gently in the breeze. The only sound in the air was the hum of insects and the quiet chatter of the troops, along with the sparks of a fire nearby. As Asgeir gathered his bearings, he noticed the cozy warmth that surrounded his body, and figured that they must have found a place to camp for the night. The only issue was that he wasn’t sure why he didn’t remember how they got there. Had he dozed off in the cart? Seemed unlikely, as Thorkell would have surely woken him up. He tried to sit up straight, but the moment he flexed the muscles in his back a blinding white pain shot up his torso and he flopped back down uselessly, a strained hiss escaping his lips.

The warmth that had enveloped him moments ago suddenly retreated, and when Asgeir cracked an eye open to see what was happening, he was met with Thorkell’s brilliant blue gaze scrutinizing his face. “Don’t move yet, you only just stopped bleeding!”

“Wha… Thorkell?” Asgeir’s mind started putting the pieces together. They had been fighting the English, then each other, and then… that’s right. He had taken an arrow for him, even after it was clear that he meant nothing to the taller man he had followed for over a decade now. Some warrior he was.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when Thorkell’s thick hand came to rest on his cheek, motioning him to look back up at him. “I’m so glad you’re not dead, I was scared you would never wake up!.. You’re not gonna die now, right?”

Seeing Thorkell so relieved at his recovery and still so anxious about his well being melted his resentment in an instant. There was no way he could hold a grudge against this manchild who he loved so much. “No, I won’t die. All I need now is rest, and I should be good as new by the time we make it to London.” Thorkell didn’t look too convinced, glancing nervously between his face and the tightly wrapped bandages around his torso. Asgeir felt them gingerly before giving an encouraging smile, “Did you do these yourself? They’re really well done.”

Thorkell shook his head, “There were a couple of the men who were used to this kind of thing, they did it. I was scared I would hurt you… more.” The two men were silent for a while, Asgeir not knowing what to say next and feeling quite awkward about the whole thing, while Thorkell kept staring at him as if he would disappear if he blinked. Finally, Asgeir cleared his throat to break the tension.

“I’m sorry I tried to order you around. You are in charge, not me, and you have the final say. I should learn to worry about you less, I know you can handle yourself, I just-” He took a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting to look more emotional than he already seemed. “We’ve been together for so long, sometimes I worry your recklessness will be the death of you. And then where would I go? What would I do without you, after all this time?” By now he couldn’t bear to look at Thorkell in the eyes, as he could feel his cheeks burning with shame and didn’t think his leader needed to see it. “I know it is foolish of me to worry about a warrior dying in battle, but I care about you, even if you don’t feel the same way.”

“I do though!” Thorkell’s overly loud response made Asgeir jump in surprise. Soon both the giant’s hands were on his lean shoulders as he continued in his booming voice, “I’m sorry about the things I said before, I was just angry and excited, I didn’t mean any of it!”

“Shh, not so loud, the troops are trying to sleep!” Asgeir cut in, more out of embarrassment at the men who were starting to watch them, but Thorkell didn’t seem to heed his warning.

“You're really important to me. I don’t want you taking arrows for me again, ok? I’d rather be the one protecting you, not the other way around. If you died, I would never be able to find a replacement— for a second in command… and for a best friend.” Thorkell flashed him one of his goofy smiles, one that made him look like he hadn’t a care in the world, and it was infectious. Asgeir felt his own lips curving in a smile, and could barely hold back a laugh, happiness bursting in his chest.

“As much as I’m enjoying the praise, getting shot with an arrow takes a lot out of a man. Can we go back to sleep?”

Thorkell nodded, knowing his apology was accepted and things could go back to normal. He settled back down beside Asgeir, slowly taking him back in his arms so as to not agitate his wound. From this position, Asgeir could hear Thorkell’s heartbeat through his fur coat, and allowed it to lull him to sleep. They had lived through another day together, and in the end, that’s all that really mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, constructive criticism/suggestions are welcome :)


End file.
